


Midnight Strolls

by 0phidian



Series: Late Night Thoughts [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (Temporary) Plotless Angst, Angst, Cliffhanger, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Roman sanders centric, Self-Hatred, at least for now, open-ended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0phidian/pseuds/0phidian
Summary: Roman shouldnothave started pacing around his room at 1 in the morning, waiting for somebody to come in and ask if he was okay, if he needed anything, if he was stressed after the wretched events of the last episode. Because clearly, after hours upon hours of waiting, that wasn’t going to happen.
Relationships: n/a
Series: Late Night Thoughts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834642
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Midnight Strolls

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first (published) fic so constructive criticism would be highly appreciated! Part 2 may or may not be coming up soon, so keep your eyes peeled for that; anyway, thanks for reading! :D

_1:03 a.m._

Roman _really_ shouldn’t have had that last cup of coffee.

Nor should he have written pages of endless nonsense that really had no use for Thomas at all in a miserable attempt at getting some work done.

Nor should he have started pacing around his room at 1 in the morning, waiting for somebody to come in and ask if he was okay, if he needed anything, if he was stressed after the wretched events of the last episode. Because clearly, after hours upon hours of waiting, that wasn’t going to happen.

After Roman had sunken out, he’d fled straight to the Imagination— usually he would head there to try and generate ideas (that strategy never worked), or he’d go there to attempt to boost his ego (attempted in vain, of course).

This time, he had absolutely no idea what he was doing there.

In the middle of his Imagination-fueled escapade, Roman could’ve sworn that he felt a tug behind him reminiscent of being Summoned, but… either he didn’t recognize it, or he consciously chose _not_ to respond to it. His mind was working hard to convince him of the former.

That’s what Roman did, wasn’t it? He pretended. No matter how much he tried to sugarcoat it, the foundation of his work was _lying._ Thinking of things that weren’t true, and working to make them happen despite the sheer lack of realism in any of his ideas. Because if any of the others told him that his work was _irrational, unrealistic,_ positively _unattainable,_ then he would believe them. _A very naïve thing to do,_ another voice in the back of his head told him.

Roman promptly shooed it away, leaving it to be replaced with another, possibly more grim thought of _if the others think you’re okay, that you don’t need help, then why don’t you feel that way?_. Which was precisely what he needed. 

He was beginning to think that this late-night walk really wasn’t doing him any good.

Despite that, he kept walking.

Roman’s gaze swiveled around the room, looking for something, _anything_ that he could use as a distraction. A distraction from what? Well… his only answer to that would be “everything”. He really had no idea what he was trying to achieve. Perhaps he was merely wallowing in his own self pity.

Two theatre masks above a mirror caught his eye; their exaggerated expressions were only made more ominous by the dim moonlight that shone through his window. The fact that they were right above the mirror, right above Roman’s red-eyed, clouded stare didn’t make it any better.

Shaking his head, he turned around with his back to the window, staring at the straw dummies— or at least what was left of them after his small, post-episode fit of rage. Just one of the casualties of the war Roman had wrought upon himself. He really didn’t want to think about how in the world the others hadn’t heard him, or at least… well, how they’d managed to ignore him. The latter was far easier to try and answer.

The part of him that still clung onto the hope that they _hadn’t_ been ignoring him practically yelled at him to look at the door, to prick his ears up for any sign of _anyone’s_ presence. Well, Roman decided, forcing himself to look anywhere except the door, it was wrong. He was the only one awake. Nobody else would be up at 1 in the morning, consumed by pointless self pity. 

Sometimes Roman wanted the florid, dramatic, _hopeful_ part of him to just shut its trap. Dreaming never got him anywhere, but he still did it. That small fraction of him still wanted to dream, to create, to _hope._ And without what was practically his entire self, what would he be? A mindless husk of Creativity. Still functional, yes, but… but….

No! He couldn’t follow that train of thought any longer! Besides, how was he supposed to shut down an important part of _himself?_ No. He wasn’t going to condone that idea for any longer.

At least his sense of self was still functional.

He glanced out the window once again, then turned to the clock. _1:19 a.m._

Roman really wasn’t ready to face the other Sides tomorrow, but if he was going to be forced to do that, he couldn’t be stumbling around like a sleep deprived sock. A voice in his head that sounded oddly like Logan told him that he should at least _try_ to sleep. As he forced himself back into bed and squeezed his eyes shut just a little too tightly… well, he was completely unaware of the concerned silhouette behind his door.

Perhaps, they decided as they walked down the hallway, it would be better to confront him another night.


End file.
